The real Rock Band

Not the best quality, but sometimes it’s more about the content than the acumen—or lack thereof—with which the content was captured.

Earlier today, Zan came into my office and said, “Daddy, after dinner tonight, I’m putting on a drum show in my room. Mommy has your ticket. She gave me $1.31 for tickets for you, Jayna and her.”

After dinner, I was issued my ticket (a Topp’s baseball card featuring Red Sox centerfielder Jacoby Elsbury, in case you care to add that bit of minutiae to the storage space in your brain), and headed on up for the performance, during which Zan performed on the pint-sized drumset we bought him a couple Christmases ago.

Once the solo portion of the program was over, I was asked to accompany him on the drums (which I actually used to play back in day), so we rocked it like hurricane.

The earplugs? Well, those were used because a.) one of Zan’s friends, while over for a playdate recently, ripped off all of the nice muting pads I had taped to the drumheads to make them less noisy and less horrible sounding, and since Zan can’t seem to comprehend hitting the drums with anything other than skull-crushing force, the potential for permanent hearing damage is very real, and b.) he doesn’t know how to actually play any instruments, so the “songs” can be a bit grating on the ol’ ears.